


A Cold Wind

by Ian Jenkins (IanJenkins)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ishgard (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 16:55:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17145521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IanJenkins/pseuds/Ian%20Jenkins
Summary: (Pre-HW spoilers)Exiled to Coerthas, the Warrior of Light reflects on the events which have brought them to this point, and of the future that awaits them.





	A Cold Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Starlight!
> 
> I’ve had this percolating in my mind for a while, until finally it burst forth after finishing the Realm Reborn content heading into Heavensward. To be fair, I could have probably posted it at a better time of year but hey. I can’t predict when this stuff hits my brain.
> 
> Anyhoo, spoilers for pre-HW, post-ARR stuff.

The wind is bitterly cold today. To be fair, the wind is bitterly cold  _ every _ day. Even in those brief moments when the snowfall ceases, the clouds clear, and the warm sun shines brightly upon the lands of Coerthas, it is  _ still _ bitterly cold. Perhaps one day, it will no longer be so.

But today is not that day.

I do not know how long it has been since we came to Coerthas in search of refuge and succor. It may have been moons, yet I still recall the events that brought us to Camp Dragonhead as vividly as though it happened yesterday. Since then, we three have sat- myself, Alphinaud Leveilleur, and Tataru Taru- waiting for word to return from Ishgard in regards to our petition for asylum. In all that time, one would think that I would have grown accustomed to the cold. In a sense, I suppose that I have.

No, mayhap it is less that I have grown accustomed, and more that I have become numb to it. There is a part of me that hates that. Another part of me accepts it wholly, as numbness is easier to deal with than the pain, despair, and rage threatening to lash out at every passerby.

When those things start to bubble to the surface, I wander the central highlands. From Camp Dragonhead, past the Gates of Judgement, out to Whitebrim; from there, heading south through Daniffen Pass, down near the Aurum Vale, and the path toward Mor Dhona through the Hall of the Seven Echoes, but there I pause.

I dare not go further south. I want to,  _ gods _ , how I want to, but I know that engaging the Crystal Braves occupying Revenant's Toll would only exacerbate the situation. Nor would it do anything to clear my name, or the names of the Scions.

Much like the cold, I should have been accustomed to loss by now, yet I still feel these losses so keenly. That seems to be the legacy of the Scions, loss. How many did we lose the first time, after Louisoix? When I had first joined, I was but one of four new recruits. By the time I had grown strong enough to challenge Titan, we had grown by leaps and bounds. From all walks of life they came, ready and willing to put their knowledge, their skills, their strength to the cause of preserving Eorzea's future, and to defend the realm against the threat of the primals and the Garlean Empire.

I still remember the cold chill that ran down my spine, the smell of blood and death that permeated around the Waking Sands the moment I opened those doors. What I saw from the sylph Noraxia made my blood run cold. In but mere moments, our numbers were decimated. The Empire's attack was swift, brutal, and without mercy. Just like that, we were back down to but a handful of dedicated souls, the rest left to molder and rot alongside the long-silent bones of those who perished in the Calamity, with naught even a stone to mark their place. None apart from we who survived would know how much they gave for this realm to see a brighter tomorrow.

We lost so many that day, but we still built ourselves back up. We defeated the Empire's ultimate weapon and stopped their war machine dead in its tracks. Primals arose, stronger than those that came before, and we felled them. We found a way to permanently destroy Ascian souls, at the cost of our comrade Moenbryda. We spearheaded the defense of Ishgard against the Dravanian Horde. But then in the moment we take time to celebrate our victories, it happened again. Our comrades were set upon in the streets and the markets. We were betrayed by our allies. One by one, the Archons fell.

Yda.

Papalymo.

Y'shtola.

Thancred.

Minfilia.

In the end, once more, only a handful of dedicated souls were left. Before, we were the saviors of Eorzea, and protectors of the realm. Now, we are known as little more than scheming assassins.

I can feel that rage burning, building up again. This wandering is not working, and it only seems to drive home that I am not as numb to this as I would like to be. Onward. My path takes me from the Hall of the Seven Echoes heading east, toward the Observatorium. Or to use its full title, the First Dicasterial Observatorium of Aetherial and Astrological Phenomena.

By the Twelve, I think the Ishgardians enjoy their puffed up titles just a little too much.

Just south of the Darkhold, the path splits, with one trail heading toward the Observatorium, and the other heading toward the North Shroud, and I stop myself.

There are a few moments of hesitation before I resign myself to my path and continue east.

No. Not today.

A few times during this exile, I have had a mind to glamour myself, return to Gridania, get as much information as I could from Mother Miounne. She, Momodi, and Baderon, they have good heads on their shoulders. I know they could never have believed the accusations. But I also know that I cannot risk drawing them into this. All it would take was the wrong person seeing the wrong thing and the heads of the Adventurers' Guild would be thrown in gaol for 'aiding and abetting' a known fugitive or whatever godsforsaken charges the Monetarists and their lackeys would dream up. I can only imagine what ridiculous charges they leveled against Alphinaud to arrest him to begin with. Had it not been for Vice-Marshal Tarupin's assistance, he would have still been languishing in a cell in Ul'dah.

The little lordling is still recovering from his bout of melancholy and self-pity. As we fled Ul'dah, Alphinaud gave in to despair, blaming himself for everything that had happened. At the time, I said nothing. No words of comfort, but also no words to confirm or deny his beliefs. I simply sat back and allowed the self-flagellation to continue. Secretly, I agreed with him. I am ashamed to admit, but there was a part of me that was satisfied. Not with the loss of our comrades, of course, but to see the great Alphinaud Leveilleur taken down a peg.

The grandson of the Archon Louisoix has rarely ever been at a loss for words, to an almost irritating degree. I wouldn't have thought much of him, sitting across from me on my entrance into Eorzea, silent, sitting aside his sister Alisaie. I would think even less of him the next times I would encounter him, which was during the memorial services for those who perished during the Calamity. They approached me unbidden, because clearly there was not enough room for him to stand elsewhere, suffering his snide remarks in regards to the city-states, their leaders, and their grand companies.

This happened not once, not twice, but thrice.

Given the circumstances, however, I cannot say that I blame him for his cynicism. The city-states of Eorzea must have done very little to instill any sort of reassurance for his grandsire's sacrifice. Even so, Alphinaud's arrogance and self-assuredness was a bewildering thing. Do not misunderstand, I admire his diplomacy, even when he can be lacking tact, and he has a way with words I wish I could emulate. I say it was bewildering because he truly seemed to think he, himself, could single-handedly save the realm. I do not doubt his sincerity, but I also wholeheartedly believe that he was blinded by his potential glory, as the leader of the world-saving, all-conquering Crystal Braves.

Ah, the Crystal Braves. There goes that rage bubbling up again. Time to start heading northward, from the Observatorium back up toward Camp Dragonhead.

Truly, as much as Alphinaud blames himself, I cannot overlook my own involvement. After all, he tasked me with recruiting several of the men and women of the Crystal Braves in the first place. Hells, it was my recommendation that brought that damnable Laurentius into the fold to begin with. I should have known better. But no. No, I had to be the one to give second chances. I wanted to believe that he had turned a new leaf, that he truly did want to start over.

On the other hand, I suppose I should not have been surprised by Yuyuhase's involvement in the mutiny. Even from the beginning, he seemed far too preoccupied with the acquisition of coin. I chalked it up to living in Ul'dah, where the pursuit of the Almighty Gil is a way of life, no matter who you have to step on to reach it.

Then there is Ilberd. What is there to say about Ilberd? He had us all fooled. I believed him to be of great moral character, loyal to a fault, and a man worthy of leading the Crystal Braves. He kept his hatred of General Raubahn more secret than he did his loyalty to his Monetarist paymasters. That a man should speak of Ala Mhigo so, but have no qualms about killing a youth like Wilred, who fought for the same as he, bespeaks a coldness in him that would freeze each of the seven hells. He claimed to have been the one to assassinate Nanamo Ul Namo, but I have my doubts, as sharpened steel seems more his style, not poison.

The price you pay for wanting to do better. I cannot begin to imagine what might have ensued had the Sultana enacted her plans. But even as much chaos as the dissolution of Ul'dah's government would have brought about, surely her death will have done much the same.

That Teledji Adeledji would resort to outright assassination, even I would not have guessed. That, I think, has been what disturbs what little sleep I have had since that day - the look of pure terror on Nanamo's face before she collapsed, and I being completely unable to do anything about it. She was right in front of me, and I could not do anything to save her before Teledji and his cronies had me arrested. Being carted out in chains by Ilberd in front of the assembled guests was certainly far from my proudest moment.

I arrive at the gates of Camp Dragonhead and consider my next move. Briefly, I think about moving further north, toward the remnants of the Steel Vigil, where some of the highest concentration of dragons and Dravanians can be found. Instead, I take the path west, retreading my original path, heading toward the Gates of Judgement once more.

That is something I have to keep reminding myself. Try as I might, no matter what lofty titles others may foist upon me, I cannot save everyone. Though I keep trying, it is impossible. I still do not know how it managed to get to this point. I never even wanted this job. I was never supposed to be this. How I ever ended up as Hydaelyn's chosen is as much of a mystery to me as it is to most everyone else. A glorified sellsword, content to take whatever job is asked of them with a silent nod, going from killing pests around the city to vanquishing shadowless demons and stopping an Imperial invasion.

But I have either gone deaf to Her word or Hydaelyn does not speak to me any longer.

No, the only one who speaks now is Midgardsormr, the Father of Dragonkind, who stripped me of the blessing She gave me. As I stand before the entrance to the Gates of Judgement, far enough outside to be out of eyesight of the guards inside, I feel his presence, just over my right shoulder. I keep my gaze focused ahead, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a glance.

" **_Heh… heh… heh… thou thinkest sanctuary lieth beyond?_ ** " His tone is almost mocking, derisive at the mortal's naivete.

It galls me to admit the truth in the intent behind his words. In the time I spent out in Coerthas searching for the Enterprise, I met some good people and worked with them a number of times in the intervening moons, as the Scions moved into Mor Dhona and Revenant's Toll. But I have never been to the city proper, nor delved into its politics. I have heard bits and pieces from what little Lord Haurchefant has told me, and what few conversations I've had with Ser Aymeric prior to the bloody banquet. As closed off as the nation has been for years, it may either be a path to salvation or to perdition.

It takes no prompting of any kind to be treated to Midgardsormr's belief, before he disappears once again.

" **_Delusion... Despair… Death… thou shalt find naught else here._ ** "

With that, I am alone as the wind whips around me, and the snow begins to pick up. I take a few steps back and turn, heading back east toward Camp Dragonhead. Enough is enough. I am denied the numbness I sought, such as the chill that begins to wrack my body, and I am all but certain to receive a chiding, both from Tataru and Lord Haurchefant.

The wind is bitterly cold today. To be fair, the wind is bitterly cold  _ every _ day. Even in those brief moments when the snowfall ceases, the clouds clear, and the warm sun shines brightly upon the lands of Coerthas, it is  _ still _ bitterly cold. Perhaps one day, it will no longer be so. Perhaps one day, I will not have need of it to try and numb myself to the world.

But today is not that day.

  
  



End file.
